


Popp's Fountain

by imgonnagutpunchthatkid123



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:11:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1876056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imgonnagutpunchthatkid123/pseuds/imgonnagutpunchthatkid123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cordelia's advertisement worked, and a new Coven has risen, with a host of new witches. But an unknown enemy, witch hunters, voodoo rivals, and potentially another coven, has threatened the new witches. Miss Robichaux's Academy is no longer as safe as it was once thought it be. Now it's up to this new Coven to protect themselves and preserve their way of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Coven

Milky light glows from the windows, their silky curtains drawn loosely. I sit on my bed, flipping through the stiff pages of a book on Divination. The irony kills me, because it’s largely written in Latin and Divination is supposed to help us understand foreign languages better, particularly Latin. Eventually, I close the book and lean back, resting my head on the iron frame of the bed. My thoughts drift to when I first got here.  
I don’t like to think about my family. My parents divorced when I was really young, and my mom won custody, but my dad visited some. I never liked him, I felt uncomfortable when he came. He was a total stranger who tried to be nice to me, but honestly, he wasn’t much. Not that my mom was, either. Both are alcoholics. I tried to keep it together for my mom’s sake, because she really tried sometimes. She was always hunting for jobs, even when she acquired one, because they seemed to come and go too often to not have backups. But then her sister died, and she slipped into a depression. She stopped trying as hard as she used to, and I was miserable because I had to watch a woman I really loved loose her grip on her life. The future wasn’t even a concept, I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t have a bank account anymore. Then, all of a sudden, drinks were prioritized over me. My mom acted like she didn’t even care anymore. I saw Cordelia’s ad online a few weeks before this, and after the third day of her not even wondering if I was fed, I left.  
Most of the girls that showed up didn’t really have any powers, just the aching desire to be able to move objects purely by will, or transmute from one room to another, or even read minds. It took a few weeks. Cordelia could see which ones weren’t really witches with just a touch of their skin. Others were trickier, and insisted they had power. Cordelia let some of them stay, their numbers dwindling with every test. Eventually, the total wore down. Twenty-six witches in all, including a warlock. More come all the time, stay for a few days, but are eventually rejected.  
Not all of them are this way. Christie arrived two months ago, begging Cordelia to let her stay. Cordelia couldn’t see her power, and Christie was almost refused. She had no immediate family, her only relatives abused her, and it took a breakdown for the couch to slide across the floor. Then she could stay.  
She was bullied for a while. No one was really convinced Christie had telekinesis except for Cordelia and Zoe, who were there when it happened. To make things worse, Christie has an unusually masculine voice. It turned out Christie has a penchant for divination, only she’d convinced herself it was dumb luck from a young age. Once this became apparent, people stopped teasing her. But she hasn’t performed an act of Telekinesis since moving the couch, even with Zoe tutoring her.  
Eight bedrooms, all crowded save for the master bedroom where Cordelia sleeps. Queenie told us that there used to be two girls to a room and four spares, but not anymore. Two bunk-beds to a room, with Queenie and Zoe sharing their own. Logan, our only warlock, gets his own room for obvious reasons.  
Our previous Supreme was Fiona Goode, Cordelia’s mother. Fiona was a wretch, not even assigning the title of Supreme to one of the witches before she died. Our current Council consists of Zoe, Queenie, and Isobel. They help Cordelia teach the other girls, and whenever something official has to happen, they’re the ones who conduct it. Isobel was among the first girls to arrive, and had somehow managed to get a really good grip on her concilium. She’d even taught herself how to suppress the urge to control people’s minds down to necessity. Cordelia sees something in her, some kind of promise.  
Up the stairs, to the left, down the hall, first room on the right. That’s my room. I share it with Christie and two other girls, Lucky and Rene. Rene’s got pyrokinesis, and Lucky is a natural at Divination.  
My name is Joann. Nineteen years old. I’ve never been considered very pretty, but I really don’t care what other people think. Black, curly hair, big nose, a pinch of curves and a great ass. I’ve known I’m a witch since I was thirteen, when I found out I could will people to do something if I tried hard enough. When I was tested to see if I had any powers, I made another girl walk into the room and start singing nursery rhymes while doing a weird dance. It took a second for them to figure out it was me, and that’s how I made my first friend here, Rene. When she was doing her test, she lit the waver I was signing on fire and I had to fill one out all over again.  
So here we are. The witches of Salem. Not as cult-like as I imagined it. The house certainly puts you in a witch-y kind of mood. White walls and furnishings, pretty crystal chandeliers, oil paintings of past witches on the walls. Makes you feel like you’re in a secret club up in your best friend’s tree house. And I guess it is kind of like that. A secret club.  
The media obsession with this place has been declining, but we still keep it as secret as possible. We never give them the full story, that isn’t necessary. We sit at tables, read cards, drink special teas. Every once and a while, to please the cameras, we’ll bend spoons or light candles by rubbing our thumbs and forefingers together. A lot of people have dismissed us as a bunch of Wicca practitioners, a group of crazy people smoking pot in a fancy house. But witches, real witches, they know it’s not bullshit.  
We have a set schedule. We always rise early, just before sunrise. Cordelia had us memorize a rite we say as the sun is rising, something like a prayer. It’s supposed to strengthen our power, hone our senses. Clears our heads. Then, breakfast. Private studies. That’s mostly reading up on old texts about the history of witchcraft, of other covens. At noon we have midday gathering, where we all drink tea and talk have a discussion about what we want to do with this coven. Cordelia says that up until now, it’s all been about survival. Even though there were a lot of witches out there, the coven was close to dissolving. But now, we’re not entirely sure what we want to do with the coven; with ourselves. So far, the unanimous decision is that the coven should teach witches the history, extent, and ins-and-outs of their powers first, and how to survive in society second. How to hide our powers, how to resist the urge to abuse them. After midday gathering, it’s lunch. For the rest of the afternoon, it’s free time. Cordelia, Zoe, and Queenie give hands-on practice sessions with the witches. At seven, we have dinner, and then it’s lights-out at ten.  
“Hey Joann,” says Christie in a gravely voice, walking into the room. “What are you up to?” She sits on the bed next to me, and the frame squeals with at the added weight. She’s pretty, long, wavy blonde hair, a great complexion. But she has the look of someone fragile. In more ways than one, she is. But her voice is so deep, so unfitting for her appearance, it throws you every time you see her.  
“I’m attempting to make sense of this book,” I say.  
“Do you want me to read it to you?” Christie says.  
“No, I’m done with it for now. I was going to grab a snack. Wanna come with?”  
Christie and I get up and walk out into the hall. We step over Gigi, a little redheaded twelve-year-old who somehow convinced her parents to let her come. She’s clutching a fat, white candle in her pale hands, and I think she’s trying to light it. As we descend the stairs, Persephone has levitated herself in the air above the landing. I think she’s napping.  
Witchcraft is all too common nowadays. Most of the girls don’t practice it all that often, they spend a lot of their time out on the town, or reading, or on their phones, or out in the back yard. But there’s enough girls here now that it’s not a surprise to find a chair floating in the air or a vase refusing to be removed from a tabletop.  
Bethany is in the kitchen, baking some kind of dessert. Cordelia has to restrict her cooking times, because she dominates the island in the middle of the kitchen, largely reducing the countertop space for anyone else trying to cook or set down groceries or books.  
“What is it this time,” Christie asks her. Bethany turns around, a large glass bowl in hand. She’s whisking dough, and some of it has gotten on her glasses.  
“Oh, hi Christie. I thought you were Logan for a second there. I’m making cream puffs,” she says brightly.  
“Can I try some?”  
“Not until they’re done,” Bethany says with a deadly tone. “Last night I was making a cake and Persephone ate half the batter.” She looks over her shoulder. “Where is she, anyway?”  
“She’s currently floating above the staircase,” I say, retrieving a box of crackers from a cabinet. I open it up, and there are little bits of leaves sprinkled on the crackers inside. I pick them out and throw them into the trash, then pour some of the crackers into a bowl. “I think Elana tried to season these crackers, there were leaves on them.”  
“Oh! I hope its basil!” says Christie, and Bethany sighs a little, saying something about how good basil is on pasta. Christie bites into a cracker and pulls up a stool, resting her elbows on the island countertop even though it’s dusted in flour.  
“Can one of you check the recipe on the table to see how long I bake these?” Bethany asks to me.  
“Twenty to twenty-five minutes,” says Christie immediately.  
“You Divined that, didn’t you?” sighs Bethany, pulling a tray out from a cabinet.  
“Yep!” chirps, grabbing another cracker.  
Shouts. Coming from the living room. Someone runs down the hall above.  
“What’s that about?” I ask.  
“Maybe someone spilled something,” provides Bethany.  
Lucky enters the room, out of breath, panic on her face.  
“We need you all in the front yard,” she pants. “Now.”  
Something drops in my stomach. The fear on her face, the way she turns and runs down the hall, to tell others, I suppose. I look over to Bethany, then to Christie, who’s wiping her face with a towel.  
“We should go,” Bethany says, untying her apron and setting down her bowl, she and I rise, Christie following behind us. Out in the hall, Gigi’s fiery head dashes past us and out the open front door. Bethany and I enter the front porch, and find a whole group outside, Cordelia in the center.  
“Is this everyone?” she asks gravely.  
I look behind me.  
“Christie’s still coming,” Bethany calls.  
“Adalyn’s still upstairs,” someone else says. Lucky appears by my side, out of breath. She’s bigger than I am, so I’m not surprised that she’s winded. But she’s taller too, so I guess it balances out more.  
“Someone can fill in Adalyn when she gets here,” says Cordelia. “Girls, we have a problem. Has anyone gone out past curfew in the past week?” she asks in a measured voice. Someone says they have.  
“Was anyone following you?” asks Cordelia. The girl says no. Cordelia grills her on a few more questions, and then says to the group again, “Absolutely no one is allowed outside the premises after dusk from now one, no matter the curfew. Are we clear?” there’s a murmur of consent around the ground. “Are we clear?” repeats Cordelia slowly, dangerously. This time, every single witch agrees. “Girls we are in a dangerous situation. I’ve brought you to the front yard for a reason. Clear some room.”  
The group parts around her, giving her a wide birth. From my spot on the porch, I can see over the heads of the other witches and into the clearing. Cordelia sets a large parcel on the ground and opens it, extracting a few brambles covered in green leaves and a garden spade.  
“I cannot demonstrate this inside the Academy,” explains Cordelia, “because most of the house has been warded against dark magic. Anyone who brings in dark objects will suffer, you’ve all been warned at the beginning, have you not?” Everyone nods. “These were found in the back yard by Connie, leaning against the shed.”  
Cordelia extracts a small knife from her pocket, holds her arm over the leafy branches and the spade, and makes a small cut. Blood slips off her forearm and drops onto the branches. There’s a small pop, and smoke emerges from the leaves. A droplet that landed on the spade bubbles as though it were brought to a boil.  
“It is a special kind of magic that can bring such harm to another creature. I do not know who, or the intentions of theses items, but they have somehow passed through the wards of this Academy and made themselves present. This means that somewhere, there is a breach.”  
Unease fills the group.  
“So what does this mean?” asks Bethany from beside me.  
“It means that we are not as safe as I thought we were. I knew that broadcasting our position would bring the threat of enemies, be them witch hunters, lone vigilantes, or what have you. But this is magic.”  
Her words sink into the crowd.  
“So…” stammers another witch. “You think, one of us?”  
“No, not one of us,” says Cordelia. “No, this is a much stranger happening. Marie Laveau is out of the picture, and I have reason to believe that this could be a work of revenge, a work of voodoo. But I also invite you to consider the potential of another coven.”  
One of the girls in the group screams. Connie, I think. The clairvoyant. A short girl with her head half-shaved.  
“He’s in pain,” whispers Connie.  
Cordelia turns to face her.  
“Excuse me?”  
“He’s in pain,” repeats Connie, her eyes unfocused. Several witches near her stepped away, making it easier to see her. Cordelia approaches her and gently holds Connie’s face in her hands.  
“Focus,” says Cordelia. “Hear with your mind.”  
There’s silence. I think Cordelia might be whispering to Connie. Everyone is transfixed.  
“The boy,” Connie says loudly, “he’s in a lot of pain. His stomach hurts, it’s hurting him badly.”  
Cordelia turns around.  
“Logan?”  
“I’m alright,” says Logan from the crowd. Tall and thin, he was one of the warlocks that first arrived. The other one, I didn’t get his name, decided to leave for some reason.  
Cordelia sits Connie down, saying soothing words. Everyone stands, not really moving, whispering to one another. There’s a disturbing air present.  
“What boy do you think Connie’s talking about?” asks Lucky.  
“Someone across the street, maybe?” provides Bethany.  
But I’m transfixed by the items Cordelia laid on the ground. The branches and the spade. Something draws me towards them. I step down, dismissing Lucky’s questions. I push through the crowd and into the opening, and kneel down next to the branch. Cordelia notices and wheels around.  
“Don’t touch those!” she shouts. “Back away from those now, young lady!” She starts for me, seizing my arm. “What are you thinking?”  
“They were in the box,” I say weakly. Cordelia freezes.  
“What? What box? What was in the box?”  
“Those leaves,” I say. I can’t believe I didn’t notice earlier.  
Connie gets up, panicked.  
“Cordelia! She’s inside, she’s—I thought, because she sounded—but it wasn’t—”  
I whirl around, her name rolling from my gut and out of my mouth in a scream.  
“Christie!”  
Bethany goes pale, she whirls around and vanishes through the front door. But the silence, it’s so apparent, so palpable. No one even talks. Perfect conditions for Bethany’s scream to reach each and every ear.  
And I’m flying inside, through the door, I rip into the kitchen and I have to clutch Bethany to keep from falling, from slipping on the blood on the floor. And Cordelia is there, wailing, the girls behind her screaming and gasping. Logan appears with a chair, and starts to get up, but Cordelia wrenches him down, telling him not to go near her, not to go near Christie, who hangs suspended in the air above the island, colorless, lifeless, the blood from the open wound in her gut steadily collecting in Bethany’s bowl of dough.


	2. A Father of Mine

Lucky squats next to me, carefully placing a bowl of soup on the floor in front of me. It pick up the silver spoon, stirring the broth absently, but I eventually set it down before me and rest my hands on my crossed legs. Lucky leans her back against the wall across from me, carefully spooning the hot liquid into her mouth. She stops when she notices I’m not eating.  
“Joann, you gotta eat something,” she says, but I don’t really hear it. “Joann?”  
“I’m not hungry,” I get out.  
“You’re going to starve yourself.”  
“I just said I’m not hungry,” I snap.  
Lucky sets down her bowl.  
“The hell you’re not,” she says hotly. “I just brought that up here for you, all the way from the kitchen. Do you have any idea how hard that was? One bowl on each hand. I just about gave myself a brain aneurism with the stress of it.”  
“Can you stop doing things for me?” I ask her, really not in the mood for her jokes.  
“Why, so you can waste away alone?”  
“I can do things for myself!” I say indignantly.  
“Oh, and you’re doing such a good job. It’s been two days, and you’ve eaten, like, half a meal.” Lucky stares at me, not saying any more. I want to retort at her, but I have no idea what I even want to say. The conversation has lasted maybe forty five seconds, and I’m already exhausted.  
Cordelia, Zoe, and Queenie all had to work together to get Christie down. Whatever black magic was in those leaves was powerful as hell. No one dared touch her until they’d done ten different spells to get all the crap out of her. No one here can do resurgence, and not even Cordelia could bring her back. But with the way Christie died, it was probably better that she didn’t come back, anyway. Christie was given a proper funeral, and all twenty-five members of the Coven were there to give her a farewell. That was two days ago, and I still can’t find the energy to even eat. I don’t feel like doing anything. Nothing anyone says ever cheers me up.  
Lucky is the last girl I want to talk to right now. She’s obnoxious and isn’t skilled at the art of knowing when people want her to stop talking. Once the ball gets rolling, it’s near impossible to get her to shut up. She’s not all bad, though. When I first arrived I was assigned to the room with her and Rene. Rene’s much more bearable, and somehow, we’d already broken the ice when we messed with each other during our tests. I got to know her within the first few days, and even though she’s a little more sweet and bubbly than I’d like, she certainly knows how to joke around. She’s not very unique in stature or appearance, but she’s got every color of the rainbow streaked in her auburn hair, and she can put on makeup like a professional in under a minute.  
There was another girl with us filling the fourth bunk until just before Christie came along. She rarely ever talked, but seemed nice enough. When we found out her “power” was just a false hope, I really felt bad for her. She seemed like the kind of person that would make a really great friend. Then Christie took her spot, and Lucky took a shining to her. I was a little relieved, because I was getting tired of being nice to her.  
At first, I gossiped about Christie with Rene, making all kinds of assumptions about her. I acted like she was a bad person, when I hadn’t even had a conversation with her yet. The thought of that fills me with shame.  
Across from me, Lucky goes back to eating, giving up on trying to get me to eat.  
“So did you hear what Toni’s been saying? You know, the girl who wears too much makeup? She told me she overheard Connie talking to herself, something about a church. What do you think that means?”  
The name “Toni” brings a sour taste to my mouth. She was among the first witches to arrive. I had a bad feeling about her the moment I saw her. Sure, I was making pretty harsh judgments about her, but most of them have turned out to be true. If you could take just one thing away from her, Toni is a world class bitch. I’d go so far as to say a predator. She’s all toxic, gossip, bullying. She started spreading rumors about people on day one, so nothing she says can be held to much more than a piece of driftwood. I’m no stranger to gossip, but it bothers me that Lucky even considers what Toni has to say.  
“Toni says a lot of stuff,” I tell Lucky. Somehow, thinking about despising Toni has given me something of an appetite. I pick up the bowl from the floor in front of me and start eating. Lucky grins when she sees me swallow some of the soup, but I pretend like I didn’t notice.  
“Yeah, Toni’s a jerk. But this time, it sounds true. Connie said it, after all.”  
“What did she say?”  
“Toni says Connie was rolling around in her bunk this morning, and started whispering something about a church, like a cult. It’s so creepy, isn’t it? I hate cults, all their weird rituals and secrecy, like they’re always up to something.”  
I stop eating my soup.  
“Lucky,” I say slowly. “We’re a cult.”  
“We’re a Coven,” Lucky corrects me. “Besides, we don’t do weird stuff.”  
“Persephone takes naps on the ceiling every afternoon,” I reply. “You can light things on fire. I can do mind control. We are as weird as it gets.”  
“I know, but that’s not what I mean…”  
I tune out to Lucky, completely losing interest in what she says. I don’t know when it happens, but suddenly, I’ve eaten the whole bowl of soup. I see it as an excuse to ditch Lucky. I say something about going to the kitchen and walk slowly down the stairs. On other days, I would think the dim lighting and pure white of the Academy would be charming, but now it’s gloomy, sad. I spend the brief walk down the hall preparing myself for entering the kitchen. When I do, there are a few more girls in there, doing dishes. I ask if I can squeeze in to clean mine, but one of them offers to take it from me, so I give it to her and depart. Most of my kitchen visits are like this. Short, sweet, and to the point. And always avoiding looking at the spot where Christie floated not five days ago, like I’ll still see her hanging there.  
I’m not really sure where to go. I want to lie down on my bed, but that means passing Lucky, which will result in her badgering me again. The living room, porch, and dining room are filled with most of the other girls, but other people is the last thing I need. I decide the best thing to do is to get out of the house. I steel myself and walk upstairs, prepared to evade Lucky, but she isn’t in the hall anymore. Quickly, I retrieve my purse from the closet and slip into my shoes.  
Cordelia set the curfew to eight o’clock, so by the time I reach the bar, I’ve only got an hour and a half. The Capdeville bar is good enough, my favorite so far, actually. It’s unique interior has a kind of homey feel to me, warm lighting, wooden tables and chairs, concrete floor with sections of hardwood, and a wooden paneled ceiling that mirrors the floor. It’s decently full at this hour, two thirds of the available seating taken up and only a few seats open at the bar. The air is filled with chatter, and two men are flipping through rock and roll albums in a jukebox.  
I take a seat at the bar and wave over the bartender.  
“Can I put in an order for a grilled cheese sandwich? Oh—and… a “speakeasy,” please, that one looks good.”  
“You’re looking pretty youthful there, young lady. Hate to ask, but ‘mind if I see some ID?”  
I look the bartender in the eyes, and say sweetly,  
“I’d like an order of fries with that, please. I’m pretty hungry.”  
The bartender hesitates.  
“Sure, coming right up.”  
A few minutes later, I’m sipping on a glass of amber fluid and absently chewing on fries. Comfort food is rarely served at the academy, so it’s good to get away from it once and a while. My thoughts drift to Christie. I have to keep telling myself that I didn’t know her very well and that I shouldn’t be so tied up about her, but I keep thinking it’s partly my fault.  
You told her about the leaves, I think.  
You realized she was in danger before anyone else, if she wasn’t so bad you would’ve been the one to get there in time, I think.  
I remember a friend telling me once that if I’m ever in a state of grief, the best thing I can do is to keep telling myself that it’s not my fault, because it usually isn’t and I’m just beating myself up about it.  
Taking a deep breath, I decide here and now that by the time I finish this meal, I will have moved on from Christie. She’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do. I make my best effort to be positive, because I know it’s the best way to get me out of this damn stupor I’ve been in. I make a toast with myself to Christie and take another sip of my drink just as the grilled cheese arrives with a bowl of soup. The Capdeville takes a gourmet spin on comfort food, so I dig in, dipping the sandwich into the soup and taking a bite. It’s delicious. My mom said once that you’d be surprised how much good food can lift a bad spirit.  
A man, maybe in his thirties, takes a seat next to me and puts in an order for a drink. A moment later, he takes a sip. I look over, curious, and see he’s also drinking a “speakeasy.”  
“It’s pretty good, isn’t it?” I say, surprising myself. I didn’t think I was in the mood for chit chat.  
“I order it every time I come here,” the man says. He’s handsome, short black hair, bright brown eyes. He’s got a hint of a beard, which softens his defined jaw. He turns to me, smiling slightly. “So… you come here often?”  
I find it in me to smile. A cliché’s a cliché, but he seems nice enough.  
“Only every chance I get,” I reply, taking another bite of my sandwich.  
“I’m a regular here,” he says, “and I don’t think I remember seeing your pretty face around here.”  
Red flags. Something inside me shuts off.  
“You’re not hitting on me, are you?”  
He looks like he’s trying to recover.  
“It’s a compliment. Relax.”  
“It’s weird, and I would appreciate it if you kept your preferences closer to your age,” I say.  
“Calm down, calm down,” he says, laughing a little. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought you would laugh.”  
He seems genuinely sorry. I decide to navigate these waters with great care for now.  
“No, it’s… It’s okay. It just seemed—”  
“Pervy?”  
“Yeah.”  
He turns back to the bar, tilting his glass back in forth in his hands, then taking another drink.  
“Don’t mind me,” he says with a kind of finality. “I get too friendly with people.”  
The way he puts it, it almost sounds like it’s my fault. But I’m not about to feel sorry for him. Growing up without a dad made me lean heavily on my mom, and she had a stalker before. She made well aware that I knew how to handle strangers. I dip my sandwich in the soup and eat some more, then nibble on a few French fries. That’s the second piece of advice I’ve taken from my mom used tonight. Sometimes, out of nowhere, such waves of affection for my mom hit me, and I’m tempted to call her, to visit her. But cynicism usually gets the better of me. The woman I took advice from drowned in alcohol a long time ago.  
“Are you in school?” asks the man eventually. It’s a little awkward, but I give in.  
“Miss Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies,” I roll off like I’m reading a drilling manual. The man seems to tense a little.  
“So you are one of them,” he says in a measured voice.  
“One of… the girls?” I ask carefully. His sudden change in personality is sending in more warning signals.  
“Well,” he starts, “I guess I was hoping you weren’t one of those… cult members. I saw how you’re dressed—” he points out my clothes. There’s nothing special about them, except maybe for my shoes. I doodled a bunch of holy symbols on them I found in a book, supposedly they’ll bring luck. “And I thought that maybe you were just a nice girl.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with me for going to the Academy,” I saw defensively. The man seems uncomfortable, not looking at me but instead staring at his drink. He looks like a disappointed parent, almost. I’ve lost my appetite.  
“I’m a pastor,” says the man, “and the thought of young girls falling to the devil…”  
He trails off.  
“We’re not a bunch of Satanists,” I retort.  
He turns to me with a sudden intensity.  
“Oh, but you are,” he says quietly. “Do you realize how far off the path you’ve fallen? How far you are from God’s plan for you?”  
I shift on my stool away from him.  
“Sorry,” I say, “but I’m not religious.”  
The man seems determined to talk to me.  
“You are a worshiper of the devil, young lady. You’re all wrong, your life misguided. You need help, you need to be fixed, you can be fixed! My name is Father Calvert, I’m a specialist for the Crescent City Conversion Church, there’s hope for you, hope to salvage your soul from damnation—”  
I stand up and back away from him. This is getting out of hand.  
“You’re making me uncomfortable, please don’t talk to me anymore,” I tell him firmly. A group of people right behind me hear this. One of them, a boy around my age, stands up.  
“Is there a problem?” he asks this Father Calvert guy.  
The Father stands and approaches me, ignoring the boy.  
“You need to be fixed, to be changed. God’s love transcends—”  
“Leave me alone!” I shout. We’ve caught the attention of most of the bar now. The bartender shouts at the man, and I back out through the restaurant, away from the Father. The boy who stood up asks if I’m okay, and when I nod, offers to lead me out. I accept, feeling safer. He walks with me down the block, checking behind our backs frequently to see if we’re being pursued, but the Father has not emerged from the restaurant. At the end of the block, I thank him and cross the street, walking briskly down the sidewalk.  
It’s about an hour’s walk back to the Academy, and after ten minutes of zigzagging, I feel safer, and slow to a stroll. The sun’s only just approaching the horizon, and I’ve still got at least a few hours of daylight. It must be around seven.  
I try to divert my thoughts from dinner, but Father Calvert pervades my mind. I only got halfway through my dinner, so I stop by a food stand parked on the sidewalk and ask for a pretzel. Of course, I get one, and I pick right back up walking.  
I’ve got maybe fifteen more minutes until the Academy, the streets now lined with residences, when I casually look behind me. My heart skips a beat—Father Calvert is only a hundred yards away. Panic fills me, and I pick up to a jog, or at least as fast as I can go in my heels. I whip my head around and scream—he’s broken into a run, and is approaching fast, too fast.  
I turn down an alley between houses, hoping to loose him between the residences. Divination, I think, Divination. Running in circles without loosing my way. I turn around and around, running up to the front of a house, doubling back around it, heading down a lane, reaching a street again—the Father is now where in sight, and I think I’ve lost him. I stop, concentrating. Divination. I hold out my hand, turning in the direction I feel. When I think I’m facing the right direction, I open my eyes to see where I’m oriented.  
His hands, huge and rough, clamp down over my mouth, his arm wraps around my waist. I’m too big for him to lift, so he pins my arm behind my back instead. We struggle for a moment, my breath constrained, when Cordelia pops into my mind.  
When people see a wall, we see a window.  
I stop struggling. He forces me down onto my knees, and I think I hear him pull out a knife. The thought is enough. He lets go, back away from me. I stand and whirl around, and see him standing a few yards back, where I willed him.  
“Why did you follow me?” I shout.  
He doesn’t answer. I notice his knife, a short, silvery blade on the ground.  
“Pick up that knife,” I command. He obeys.  
“Tell me why you were following me.”  
He doesn’t answer, but he squirms in place. Concilium has multiply levels of difficulty. Willing the truth from someone, or speech in general, is difficult. But motor function, that’s an easy one.  
“Cut yourself.”  
Almost immediately, he drags the knife across his open palm. He screams, shaking.  
“Tell me!”  
No words. I don’t even have to speak it, but the knife finds his throat. I think his pupils dilate.  
“You will tell me, or I will kill you.”  
No words. I take a deep breath, and the knife presses closer to his throat.  
But I can’t. I can’t do it. Sure I’ve hated people before, but I’ve never wanted to hurt them. And this, this is murder. This is so beyond just revenge, or hurting someone. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I think he senses that I won’t kill him, that I don’t have the guts. Even the cut on his palm was superficial, nothing a bandage can’t fix.  
“I’m not going to kill you,” I say with a shaky breath. “But you are going to stay away from me.” We’re on Phillip Street, the street adjacent to Jackson Avenue, the road the Academy is on. We’re closer than I thought we were. Phillip Street extends for a long time either way. I pick the one going away from the academy. “Walk down that road, and down stop until it ends.”  
Father Calvert turns around and starts walking, almost robotically. I’m not actually sure my Concilium is powerful enough to make him walk such a long distance, but at least I’ll make it back to the Academy before he can turn around and get me. As soon as he’s forty yards away, I turn on my heels and run.  
I haven’t even made it to Jackson Avenue when I hear someone call my name from behind. I turn around and see a girl about my age. I recognize her from the Academy, but I can’t place her name.  
“Are you okay?” she calls.  
“Get over here,” I gasp, out of breath from the short sprint. I’ll have to work on that.  
She trots over.  
“Lucky said you went missing, Cordelia asked me and a few others to look for you.”  
“It’s not safe here,” I say, grabbing her hand and tugging her to the road.  
“What are you talking about?” asks the girl, looking worried. She doesn’t try to free herself, though. She’s small, slight in stature, with long, mousy hair.  
I pull her on to Jackson Avenue, and I can see the Academy up on the corner. Immediately head for it, releasing the girls arm. I can see another girl standing in front of it.  
“There was a man, he was following me,” I explain to the girl.  
“There was no man on the street when I got there,” says the girl carefully.  
I turn around, confused.  
“He should’ve been there, he was right there when I ran—”  
“Joann!”  
I see Lucky running up to me, waving her arm.  
“Where were you?” she exclaims when she’s caught up to me. “Looked everywhere but I couldn’t find you, I thought something had happened…”  
“I’m fine Lucky, I just wanted to get out for a while.”  
The girl cuts in.  
“Look, if you’re okay, Cordelia wants us all back at the house. She says that there’s going to be a meeting tonight.”  
I walk with Lucky and this girl, who I find out is named Haven, back into the house. Haven waits at the gate for Persephone and Logan, who were assigned to help search for me.  
I head upstairs, glad to see that Lucky has stopped to talk to Toni. All things considered, I’m not sure I like Lucky very much.  
I lay down on my bed, not sure how I feel. I think about Father Calvert, about him following me home, and clutch myself a little tighter. I keep thinking about what he would’ve done if he caught me. The scary thing is Concilium is my only defense. I’m not fit enough to put up much of a fight, and I don’t have any experience with a gun or even using a knife. It was never necessary before.  
Worse still, something tells me that Father Calvert was going easy on me. Making people give me food and drinks is one thing, but defending myself… All I did was make him walk away. The throat-slitting was a dead end, I figured he’d be too scared to do anything then, but he was strong. I think about all the things I could’ve done. I could’ve found a rope or something and made him tie himself up, or made him break into a house or hit a car with a bat or something so someone would call the police and get him arrested…  
Who am I kidding? I think.  
“You’re not kidding anyone,” says a voice from the door. I look over and see Connie standing there. She’s pretty, maybe sixteen, with straight, blonde hair framing her round face.  
“You’re the clairvoyant,” I say. “The one who heard Christie.”  
She nods a little.  
“I’m sorry about her, you really liked her,” she says quietly.  
“I didn’t know her very well,” I say dismissively.  
“Oh, but you liked her,” says Connie with wide eyes. “You haven’t stopped thinking about her all week.”  
I prop myself up on one elbow.  
“Why are you reading my mind?” Somehow, I feel naked. “Stop it!”  
“I’m sorry!” she says in a frightful voice, shrinking a little. “I can’t help it.”  
“Why are you here?” I ask, annoyed.  
“Because I need your help. We have to go warn Cordelia immediately,” she says quickly.  
“What do we have to warn her about?” I ask, confused.  
“I have premonitions,” she says intelligently. “I saw Father Calvert in my dreams yesterday.” I sit up at the mention of his name. “And you saw him today. And if he wanted to he could have killed you. And we’re not safe anymore. And we have to go tell Cordelia, right now!”  
“Any more ‘ands’?” I ask her sarcastically.  
Connie’s voice drops very low.  
“And he’s at the front door.”


	3. Cordelia's Wise Words

I run down the hall with Connie and fly down the stairs, Persephone’s shoe almost hitting me in the head. I shout something caustic to her, not really paying attention. Speeding down the main hall, I skid to a stop at the door and stair through the peep hole.  
Father Calvert is standing at the door, wearing a cheap suit and holding a cane, absently tapping it on the porch. This house is so old, I can feel the vibrations of the cane through the floor. The temperature feels like it’s dropped ten degrees.  
“He’s not wearing his casual clothes,” says Connie behind me.  
I turn around my head to her, confused.  
“You noticed his suit,” she says softly. “That means he wasn’t wearing it before. People don’t take particular interest in something unless it’s important.”  
“It’s going to take a while to get used to you doing that, isn’t it?” I sigh.  
“Perhaps not as long as you think,” she says cryptically. For someone as shy as Connie, she’s seemed to warm up quickly. So far, she seems docile enough. Intrusively presumptuous, maybe, but docile.  
“What are we going to do about Father Calvert?” I ask Connie, who shrugs. I turn back to the peep hole.  
Then I notice something in the evening light, two people behind the Father. It’s Haven and Logan, walking to the door together. Logan says something and Haven laughs, leaning into Logan. They don’t seem to have noticed Father Calvert, walking directly in the middle of the sidewalk and up the stairs. Then, to my utter astonishment, they walk right into the Father—passing through him as though he were made of air. Logan reaches the door and opens it, startled at my presence.  
“Oh,” says Logan, blinking. Haven quickly steps away from him. “Uh, hi… Can we get through?”  
I stare at him for a moment before pulling myself out of my stupor.  
“You just…” my voice trails off when I notice Father Calvert is no longer standing on the porch. “…walked through him,” I finish shakily.  
“Walked through who?” asks Haven, looking behind her.  
“There was a man!” I get out, still not processing what just happened. “He was the one who chased me! And you just—walked through him like—”  
“Are you okay?” asks Logan, interrupting me. “It’s hot outside, I’d really just like to get in…”  
Connie grabs my arm and gently pulls me to the side, Logan steps through, Haven on his heels. Connie releases me and shuts the door.  
“They didn’t see anyone,” she explains, once the two are out of earshot.  
“But how is that possible?” I ask her. “You and I saw him.”  
“You saw him,” Connie corrects me. “My premonition showed a man in a suit at our door, and something inside me knew it was Father Calvert. Did he look anything like that?”  
“Yes, exactly,” I breath. “But it can’t have been a vision… Could it?”  
“Girls, what’s the matter?”  
We turn around to find Cordelia standing behind us, smiling faintly, hands folded in front of her.  
“Logan told me you think you saw someone at the door,” she says.  
“I did, there was a man,” I explain. “But then he… vanished.”  
Cordelia holds out one of her hands.  
“Let me touch you,” she says calmly. “I can see what you saw.”  
If it were anyone else, I’d say no. But Cordelia has this glow about her, this sense of warmth and comfort. It’s almost a motherly feel. And if it weren’t for how everyone respects her, for how she keeps everything orderly, you could forget she’s headmistress and think of her as a friend, a counselor. I hold out my hand, and she grasps it, rubbing it between her hands.  
“Yes, yes I see him,” she says. Then she pauses. “You didn’t tell me he chased you,” she says suddenly, almost coldly. Her change in demeanor catches me off guard. My hand gets clammy in hers.  
“I… didn’t know how… how to tell anyone, I didn’t think…” I swallow a little, suddenly aware of all the eyes on me. Girls in the living room and kitchen have stopped their conversations and stare at me through the enormous, haunched arches that connect the two rooms to the foyer. If the arches were barred, I could be a caged animal in a zoo. I swallow hard and finish my sentence. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”  
“Why?” Cordelia insists, shaking her head. “Joann, this is important information. If you’re in danger, we have to do something about it.”  
“Because when the girl found me, um, I’m sorry, I don’t remember her name…”  
“Haven?” Cordelia replies. I nod.  
“When she found me, she said she didn’t see the man on the street,” I breath. “And, when he was standing at the door, Haven and Logan walked right through him like he was a ghost.”  
“She’s telling the truth,” pipes up Connie from behind me.  
“I believe her,” says Cordelia. “Connie, didn’t you have a dream about him?”  
Connie nods, wide-eyed.  
“How did you know?” she leans in and says quietly, “can you read minds, too?”  
“Rumors spread fast amongst this house,” says Cordelia distastefully. “I overheard talk that you saw a… a priest, was it?”  
“A Father,” corrects Connie.  
“Father Calvert,” I say. “That was his name.”  
“Let’s sit,” says Cordelia, “and you can tell me more about Father Calvert.”  
We walk into the living room, and Cordelia gently asks a girl on the couch if she can sit. The girl nods a little too fast and skirts out of the room.  
“In fact, I think privacy will be nice, if you girls don’t mind,” says Cordelia. Within the minute, the living room has been deserted, but there’s no doubt some hide in the kitchen or just in the hall, listening. “Tell me everything that happened.”  
“I left the house at around four,” I start. Cordelia holds up her hand a little, and I stop.  
“May I ask why?” she says.  
I shrug, thinking of Lucky.  
“I wanted to explore downtown a little,” I make up.  
“That’s not the truth,” says softly Connie from a chair. I glare at her, and she averts her eyes.  
“Why did you leave, really,” says Cordelia, her eyes darting from Connie to me.  
“It’s not that big a deal, I just…”  
“You just what?” Cordelia says after a moment of silence.  
“I was still upset about Christie,” I finally say. “And I was a little annoyed at—at staying around the house all day.”  
Cordelia’s expression softens.  
“Lucky doesn’t seem too bad,” says Connie.  
“Connie, refrain from reading Joann’s mind, please. If you speak out of line again, you will be asked to leave,” Cordelia snaps. Connie nods but doesn’t speak, pursing her lips and dropping her gaze to her lap. “Go one, Joann.”  
“I went to get dinner, and he sat next to me at the bar. And he started talking to me, and it was really weird. Like creepy. Somehow he guessed I was a witch, too. And when I told him that I went here, he told me his name and started telling me that I was ‘wrong,’ and ‘misguided.’ And then I left, and he started chasing me out of no where.”  
Something in my stomach churns at the thought of him running after me.  
“I’m very sorry you had to go through that alone,” says Cordelia soothingly. “Not to divert the conversation, but using Concilium to steal is frowned upon in this house,” she says with an edge of warning. There’s a noise in the kitchen.  
“Someone just called Joann a criminal,” Connie says.  
Cordelia rises.  
“When I say privacy,” Cordelia calls out, “I mean it.”  
The sound of footsteps from the kitchen can be herd, then the slaps of shoes going up the stairs. Cordelia resumes her position on the couch, facing me.  
“How did you get away from him?” she asks me.  
“I made him… walk away,” I say. “I tried to get him to speak, but he wouldn’t talk. And then I made him bring his own knife to his throat, but it was just intimidation, I never wanted to hurt him—”  
“I understand,” interjects Cordelia. “While intimidation of such a… aggressive, manner, is not advisable, you did what you could. The fact that you can preform Concilium is undeniable, Joann, but I believe that this individual is dangerous, and you should not leave this house without the company of others.” She addresses both Connie and I now. “I have come to terms that my message for young witches bears the risk of threats. Voodoo practitioners lost a figurehead recently, a woman named Marie Laveau was an impression woman in the voodoo world, and many people blame witches for her death. And there is, of course, the possibility of witch hunters. There is a coven, another one unlike ours, positioned much further north. They’re no Salem witches, but witches of another kind. A dangerous kind. I’ve discussed with the Council about the necessity of defense-based teachings, and we’ve agreed to begin teaching witches how to use their powers in a manner of self-defense by this upcoming Monday. Until then,” she says, turning back to me, “I would appreciate it if you stayed here, for your safety. And for you, Connie,” she says, facing Connie, “do your best to stay out of trouble. If you have any more Premonitions, alert me as soon as possible. You two are dismissed.”  
Connie and I head upstairs in silence. When I reach a the bend in the stairs, I turn and see thirteen girls staring at me, clutching the railing and leaning over, apparently to eavesdrop. Of them, I catch the curly, fiery mane that belongs to Toni. She has a sneer on her face.  
“Get in trouble with Cordelia,” she says with a tone of superiority. “You’re getting kicked out, right? The bathroom always smells like shit after you’ve used it.”  
Shock. That’s the first emotion I register, at least. I stop dead in my tracks, my jaw dropping slightly. I’ve never even spoken to her! Hell, I only know what I know about her because I watch how she acts from a distance. Anger boils up. I’m not one for taking insults lightly.  
“What’s your problem?” I spit out.  
Toni leans over the railing at me.  
“You’re my problem, Joann. But not just mine,” she says, gesturing to the others. Some of them scoot away from her, like she’s just flicked her own spit at them. “I’m pretty sure a lot of people will be happy once you’re kicked onto the streets.”  
“Uh, sorry to burst your bubble,” I retort, “but at least half of the people you just gestured don’t want anything to do with you.”  
“Says the girl who queefs in bed at night,” smirks Toni. “I hear,” she announces to the group, “that you try to plug up your vagina with tissues to stop it.”  
The girl next to her giggles. I probably turn beet red, because Toni smiles with an obvious satisfaction.  
“What did she do to you?” asks Connie angrily.  
“Oh, please. She stinks and you know it, you just don’t want to hurt her feelings.”  
“She didn’t do anything,” says Connie hotly. “You just want to bully her so you feel better.”  
“Whatever,” Toni says, shrugging and turning away. She just starts to walk down the hall when Connie leans over and whispers,  
“I heard what you thought. Do it.”  
A smile spreads across my face, I turn and mount the stairs, and hear with satisfaction as Toni’s legs fail her and she drops to the floor like a stone. She scrambles up, swearing like a fiend, and wrenches two girls at the railing apart so she can thrust daggers at me with her eyes.  
“You did that!” she snarls.  
I stop and stare her dead in the eyes, loosing my smile.  
“And I’ll do it again in a heartbeat.” Her hand flies up, seizes a fistful of her hair, and tugs, eliciting a scream. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but I’m not a player in it.”  
I let her release her hand, and she stands there, fuming a little, before stomping off down the hall. One of the girls leaning against the railing, with short, aqua hair, whistles.  
“Showed that bitch,” she says approvingly. “What’s your name?”  
“Joann,” I reply.  
“Well, that’s boring,” she says, stretching. I can see a nose ring glint in the light, and I can just make out a tattoo when her shirt lifts up. It’s a style, I guess. “The name’s Frankie. I think I like you.”  
And with that, Frankie turns and goes.  
Cordelia calls us down into the living room after dinner. She tells the rest of the girls about the defensive training, then releases us. I hang back in the hall when we’re dismissed to avoid the traffic going up the stairs. I spot Persephone in the crowd. She’s easy to see because she always puts her hair up in a really big bun. To my entertainment, she pauses at the stairs, holds out her arms a little, and floats up into the air, floating out of sigh like a bubble, sailing upward. A lot of the girls watch, transfixed, envious. Of everyone here, except of course for Cordelia, Persephone is by far the most talented telekinetic.  
That night, Connie walks into the room ten minutes before lights out, tugging a suitcase. She tells me that she requested Christie’s old bed, and hobbles into the closet to unpack.  
“Who’s that?” Rene asks me from her bunk.  
“That’s Connie,” I reply. “She’s cool. But she’s shy, so don’t expect chit chat.”  
“She seems to like you,” Rene says. “Enough to request moving in here.”  
“I just met her today, actually,” I respond. I lower my voice. “I get the feeling she doesn’t have a lot of friends.”  
Rene nods.  
“We can fix that, can’t we?” she says.  
“Exactly,” I tell her.  
“Need some light?” Rene calls to the closet.  
“Actually, I do,” Connie squeaks, peeping out from the closet tentatively. “Is there a light?”  
A candelabra sitting on a table next to the closet door flicks to life. Connie looks at it, startled, then back to Rene.  
“Did you do that?” she asks softly.  
“You can read minds, can’t you?” Rene asks skeptically.  
“I tune out,” Connie explains dismissively. “I don’t have to read minds if I don’t want to.”  
It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, how it works, but I don’t know enough about clairvoyance to argue. Rene goes with it, too.  
“Yes, it was me,” Rene says, but Connie’s thoughts seem to be elsewhere. Rene waits for Connie to say something, to do anything, but she’s just standing there, quietly. Suddenly, she looks embarrassed.  
“Sorry,” Connie says quickly, and scurries into the closet to finish unpacking.  
Rene and I exchange looks, and then she picks up her book again. Lucky shifts above me.  
“Do either of you know if that girl got out of the bathroom yet?” she asks us. Rene and I shrug. I lean back to look through the door and into the hall, but the bathroom door is just out of sight. Lucky adjusts herself so she’s facing the closet. “Hey mind-reader, can you tell if anyone’s in the bathroom?”  
Connie walks out rather sheepishly and closes her eyes.  
“It’s not,” she says quickly, and vanishes again.  
Lucky climbs down the ladder of our bunk bead and walks out the door, dressed in pajamas. I notice that Connie has appeared and is watching Lucky intently as she leaves. I look at her and raise my eyebrows. Then, it occurs to me I can think what I want to ask her.  
What’s up? I think.  
Connie’s eyes dart to the hall, where Lucky just left, then meet my eyes. Very subtly, Connie shakes her head, and ducks back into the closet.


	4. Revelations

On Monday morning, all the witches stand on the balcony, watching the sun rise and chanting softly. Some of us drink tea.  
“Utinam nos, Hecate carus enim dicimus solem.”  
We wait until the sun has risen before Cordelia dismisses us.  
Starting at eight o’clock, the defensive training will begin. For the girls with powers that can potentially be used for defense, Zoe and Queenie will be teaching us. For those with no useable powers will practice with Cordelia. Rene and I will be practicing with Queenie in the back yard.  
“All right bitches,” Queenie calls out when everyone’s arrived, “I’m gonna teach you to kick some ass.”  
I’m in a group of ten, including Persephone, Rene, Frankie, and Logan. As for the other five, I don’t know any of their names.  
“Basically, Cordelia thinks it’s high time you guys start getting some practically training for your powers so you’re prepared if you get attacked. Honestly, if you guys get jumped right now, how many of you could fight that person off?”  
Only two raise their hand.  
“Exactly. First things first, let’s see what y’all can do.”  
Queenie sets down a folding chair on the grass, then steps back and orders everyone to line up. The directions are simple: push over the chair.  
Persephone goes first. She holds out her palm and the chair moves almost instantly, flipping backward a few times like tumbleweed blown in the wind. Queenie walks over, repositions the chair, and returns to her spot off to the side. One by one, we all try moving the chair. Rene goes next, knocked the chair backward when she extends her hand. Logan takes more time, and seems to be straining himself. Eventually, Queenie settles for the fact that the chair has moved back a few inches and tells him to get back in line. The other witches go on, some faster than others, but all managing to knock it over. When it’s time for me to do it, I turn to Queenie.  
“I don’t think I can do Telekinesis,” I say.  
“Telekinesis is super common, you probably can and just don’t know it yet,” she says dismissively.  
I turn and face the chair, extend my right palm towards it, and concentrate on willing it to move, not sure what else to do. I’ve never attempted it before. I just stand there, willing it to move, overthinking everything. After a minute of this, Queenie tells me to get back in line and let the other girls try it. I end up next to Logan.  
“Couldn’t do it either, eh?” he leans over and says to me. “Join the club.”  
I’ve never talked to Logan before, the only impression I’ve ever got from him was from a few days ago, when he thought I was hallucinating.  
“Yeah, but mine didn’t even move,” I whisper back, deciding to be friendly. Maybe it’s how I was raised, but being friendly to people has always been my first instinct. I had an enemy in high school for some reason, a girl who singled me out. Her friend tried to make peace with me in an attempt to amend the situation, but I was always wary of her. In the end, she really wasn’t that bad of a person, maybe just got in the wrong crowd. And besides, being suspicious all the time is exhausting.  
“I think if we get jumped, we’d both be screwed, which puts us in the same spot.”  
“Actually, I can do mind control,” I say confidently. “I can make any attacker turn and walk away.”  
“Respectable,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. I want to brag, to tell him that I actually did exactly that when Father Calvert chased me, but I decide against it. I’ve never been the bragging type.  
“So what can you do?” I ask. “Or is Telekinesis all you’ve got?”  
“I’m strong,” he says simply.  
“Strong?” I raise my eyebrows. “Like, Hulk strong?”  
“Actually, yeah,” he replies. “Someone called it… ‘Psionic strength.’ I hear Frankie’s got that, too,” he says, leaning over to look at Frankly, who’s currently failing to move the chair. “She was found and sought on a hunch out before Cordelia put out the ad because she punch right through a brick wall. She declined at first, but then she decided to come after the ad was put out.”  
I lean away from Logan to look at him.  
“You know an awful lot about Frankie,” I say suspiciously.  
“That’s because I grew up with her,” he replies. “I was the one who convinced her to come here with me when I left home.”  
“Was she a fiend?” I ask.  
Logan nods.  
“For the most part, we didn’t really talk. Not because we were on bad terms, just not a lot in common.”  
The last girl in line successfully knocks over the chair, and Queenie has us all try again, one by one. After a third go around, it becomes apparent that other than me, only Frankie and one more girl cannot move the chair. I watch the other girls with envy, frustrated that I couldn’t move the chair an inch, humiliated by how easily the others can do it.  
Queenie gives me, Frankie, and the other girl a pep talk and basically releases us for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, we’ll try to perform other skills. It looks like they’re trying to narrow down those who can’t defend themselves with their powers, starting with the most effective gifts and working towards the less powerful ones until they’re left with a handful of oddball witches that couldn’t perform a decent skill to save their lives.  
I walk through the house, not knowing what to do. In the living room, Zoe and a group of girls practice Telekinesis by pushing a pillow over the rug. I sit in the kitchen, eating nuts from a bag until noon, when we have midday gathering. Zach brings out trays of tea until everyone has a cup. Cordelia, Zoe, Queenie, and Isobel talk in hushed voices in the hall before entering. Cordelia sits in the middle of the couch, with Zoe and Queenie on either side and Isobel standing behind it, resting her hands on the backrest.  
“It has come to my attention that more than half of your girls possess Telekinesis. Over the course of the next two weeks, I will be holding group lessons in the morning on Telekinesis for those who have been blessed with the gift. For those who are unable to perform Telekinesis, we will continue lessons in the afternoon tailored to your specific gift.”  
She pauses for a moment, sipping tea, before continuing.  
“Girls, us witches have always had to hide. I thought that it might be a time of peace, but I was wrong. We are in just as much danger as we always have been. It has been brought to my attention that my methods are too… passive. Unimpressible. I’ve been told this before by none other than our former Supreme. Then, I did not want to change my ways, both out of preference for my own teachings and out of spite for my mother.   
“But Queenie, Zoe, and Isobel—our Council—have brought wisdom to light. It would be unwise to let pride get in the way of reason. Fiona Goode did have some wisdom of her own, in a twisted way. She was aggressive and neglecting, but she played her cards right. And now we need to help each other play our cards right, too.”  
Everyone exchanges looks while Cordelia takes a sip of tea. Lucky sits to my left, Rene to my right. Rene and I cast glances at each other, but Lucky is transfixed on Cordelia, practically clinging to every word.  
Cordelia looks around, pleased that she has the attention of everyone in the room.  
“These are my words for you,” she finally says. On the other side of the room, Frankie perches on the fireplaces, her bare feet dangling dangerously close to the fire.  
“Stay smart.”  
Little Gigi, clutching her teacup in both hands leans against Isobel’s chair, her large, green eyes observant and intelligent.  
“Stay careful.”  
Toni shoots daggers at me from her place on the floor near the piano.  
“And above all else,” Cordelia says, smiling, “when other people see a window, we see a wall.”  
And with that, for what I’m sure is entirely for dramatic flare, Cordelia vanishes, Transmutating to her office, brining her cup of tea with her.  
Half an hour later, I sit in the dining room across from Rene, eating mashed potatoes and beef stew, prepared with the help of Bethany. A vegan herself, Rene pushed away her stew and now entertains herself by attempted to ignite it. So far, she’s reduced the fluid content of the stew and dried up the meat and vegetables, but hasn’t been able to produce a flame. She started getting close when we crossed some kind of line and the whole bowl reeked of sulfur, so we had to stop. I’ve just stuffed another forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Shifting in my chair, I see it’s Connie, who’s done up her curtain of blonde hair in a pretty braid.  
“I have to talk to you,” she says urgently.  
I look over at Rene, then back to Connie.  
“Rene’s trustworthy, can she hear, too?”  
Connie’s eyes shift up to Rene. She’s quiet for a while, but then says as softly as usual,  
“You were nice to me. You can come too, if you want.”  
Rene shrugs and follows Connie and I upstairs to our room. When we reach it, Connie shuts the door tightly behind us.  
“We have a problem,” she says quickly. “And I need your help, Joann.”  
Rene starts to say something, but Connie shushes her, closing her eyes. After a moment, she sighs in relief.  
“Kaitlyn’s masturbating, we’ll have a few more minutes.”  
I think I make some kind of squeak, and Rene goes red in the face. She tries to say something but all that comes out is something between a cry of discomfort and an awkward giggle.  
“What?” Connie says, looking at Rene and I.  
“That’s… um… kinda personal, isn’t it?” Rene says, trying to stifle a smile.  
Connie doesn’t seem at all phased.  
“We all do it,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.  
I’m about to object for the sake of my entire generation, but Connie turns to me and gives me the most condescending, sarcastic look, I burst into laughter. Rene catches on and starts to laugh herself. And Rene has such a weird laughing, all snorting and wheezing in a on-her-deathbed sort of way that it sends me into a whole new fit of laughter. After a while, I start to calm down. Connie is giggling to herself, and I realize that Rene and I must look like the biggest idiots right now.  
“Okay, not to detract from our incredibly important topic, but who’s Kaitlyn, and why is she important?” Rene finally asks.  
“Kaitlyn always hangs out with Toni,” says Connie, eager to get back to her point. “Toni and Lucky are downstairs, neither of them feel like coming upstairs, so we should be safe for a while.”  
“Just out of sheer curiosity,” interrupts Rene, “where exactly is Kaitlyn… helping herself out?”  
“The bathroom,” Connie says immediately. “In the tub, she using a—”  
“Whoa, whoa! Stop!” says Rene shrilly, laughing but with a fearful expression. “Too much information!”  
I’m uncomfortable again, but I notice that Connie doesn’t at all seem embarrassed or uncomfortable, just considering Rene’s outburst thoughtfully. For a moment, I wonder what kind of background she had growing, if she’s so matter-of-fact about things. Then it dawns on me that it must be the curse of clairvoyance. Knowing what everyone is thinking at all times, I’ll bet nothing phases her anymore.  
“Listen, you guys,” Connie says more to me than Rene. “It’s not safe here.”  
Rene and I exchange glances.  
“Well, that’s kind of obvious,” I say. “It hasn’t been safe here for what—two weeks?”  
“That’s not what I meant,” says Connie seriously. “I mean it’s not safe in this realm. Someone summoned a demon.”  
It takes a second to realize she’s being serious.  
“What do you mean?” asks Rene. “Like, an actual demon?”  
Connie purses her lips.  
“I don’t know. I had a premonition. A witch dressed in weird black clothing was drawing a sigil on the floor in chalk. And then she was in the kitchen and there was a stranger sitting at the table, and she was serving him tea or something. I didn’t see his face, but he was evil, I know it.  
“And you think it was a demon?” I ask her.  
“What else could it be?” says Connie in a worried voice. “I’ve been looking around, but no one here is thinking anything suspicious. And there isn’t any chalk markings on the floors.”  
“But it was a premonition,” says Rene. “Which means it hasn’t happened yet, right?”  
“The last time I had a premonition, it was about Father Calvert,” Connie says nervously. “And then he attacked Joann that day.”  
“And you had this… when?” I ask.  
“This morning,” Connie says.  
Rene nods.  
“And you think it will happen today?” she asks. Connie nods. “Last night, you shook your head at Lucky. What was that about?”  
“Lucky’s not your friend,” Connie says in a flat tone.  
Connie squeaks, turning pale. A moment later, a new voice comes from behind us.  
“No, I guess not.”  
Rene, Connie and I whip around to find Lucky leaning against the door, staring glumly at us.  
“Why are you so mean to everyone?” Lucky asks Connie in a sad voice. Who just shakes her head. Lucky takes a shaky breath. “I knew you guys didn’t like me. No one ever does.”  
I’m paralyzed, no words coming to my mouth. It’s true, I don’t like Lucky. I’m pretty sure Rene doesn’t, either. But I never wanted Lucky to know that. I kept hoping she’d find a new friend eventually and leave me alone.  
“Don’t say that,” Rene says to my relief. “A lot of people like you.”  
“Don’t do that,” Lucky says, shaking her head. “Don’t do that, I don’t want you to.” She takes a deep breath through her nose, exhaling through her mouth, her eyes watering. “I shouldn’t have fooled myself into thinking you liked me. Not after all this time.”  
Toni appears in the doorframe behind Lucky.  
“Why are you talking to these freaks, I thought we were going out,” she says to Lucky. I catch her eye over Lucky’s bulky frame, and she glares at me. She seems to understand what’s going on and takes Lucky’s handing, saying soothing words to her. Then she turns to us.  
“Guess the cool thing to do now is to make other people feel like shit,” she spits at us, her voice like acid. I want to retort at her, but I don’t want to give Lucky any more reason to be upset. I decide to deal with Toni later.  
“Lucky, we didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” I say to her, a pang of guilt striking me in the gut. “That’s the last thing we’d want to do.”  
“Give it a rest,” Lucky snaps, turning her head from Toni to us, angry tears in her eyes. Her sudden change in composure takes me by surprise. Her eyes seem to lock onto me like I’m a target.  
“You,” she says, her voice full of loathing. “I was nice to you. I was trying to be nice to you! Why aren’t you nice to me?” she trembles a little, and I start to wonder how sound she is mentally. “Toni is nice to me! She understands. Not like you ever would!”  
Her anger seems to ebb, replaced by sorrow, because her features seem to collapse. Tears roll down her cheeks like marbles, her lower lip wobbling. She stands for a minute, crying silently, Toni brushing back her hair and glowers at us so intensely I briefly wonder if she’s trying to light us on fire.  
Then, just as quickly as she started to cry, Lucky stops, sadness again replaced by rage. She sets her sights on Connie, who has shrunk behind us.  
“You’re to blame!” Lucky says, fuming. “You do this to everyone. You’re always mean to everyone! Just wait until they find out about how you killed her, how you killed her without even thinking!”  
My blood turns icy. Something inside me tells me Lucky isn’t lying. I take a risk.  
“Killed who?” I ask, my voice sounding smaller than intended.  
I never thought a single word could make a room feel thirty degrees colder before. Wiping angry tears away with her arm, Lucky does not break eye contact with me as she says,  
“Christie.”


	5. NOTICE

NOTICE

All the chapters I’ve submitted so far are first drafts, they’ve barely been edited or re-drafted. Unfortunately, I made the choice to put the story in first person, but now I realize that to paint a better picture, and to expand the plot better, it probably should’ve been in 3rd person. The rest of the chapters are going to be in third person now, because I think it’ll help create a better mental picture. At any rate, I’ll eventually re-write the previous chapters, but as for now, mentally prepare yourselves for a major shift in reality.

This has been a PSA.


	6. Rising Foes

The ornate church sat in humble silence, it’s fine wooden pews all but empty, lamps hanging from the ceiling like fiery orbs. A hunched, awkward man with whips of white hair kneeled in front of the pulpit, silently uttering words from his mouth. Stained glass windows throw bits of color on the man’s balding head, and his eyes eventually lifted to the pale blue paint on the dome above.  
“Can I help you?” came a raspy voice from behind.  
The hobbled old man raised to his feet, turning around. An equally aged man a good foot taller and dressed in black was approaching from behind, treading the red carpet between the pews.  
“Oh, no, Father,” waved off the hunched man, “I’m just taking care of something that needed attention long ago…”  
The Father approached him kindly.  
“May I assist you?” he asked in a warm voice. “The Lord forgives all who have the courage to lay down their sins.”  
The hunched man chuckled, rubbing his hands together.  
“You see, Father, that is precisely why I’m here,” he said quickly. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Father Boyd.” He extended his right hand to the Father, who had approached close enough to necessitate such an exchange.  
“Boyd, that name sounds familiar,” mused the Father.  
“I’m from the Crescent City Conversion Church,” Provided Boyd.  
At these words, the Father’s mouth twisted, as though he’d just tasted something sour.  
“I see,” said the Father in a careful voice. “And you are… an associate of Father Calvert, by chance?”  
Boyd nodded.  
“Devil worship,” hissed the Father beneath his breath.  
Boyd had snatched these words, his expression cheerful.  
“Quiet like devil worship, yes,” said Boyd in a delighted voice. “It really is a shame our practice is such a taboo in society, we have so much to share.”  
“I’ll bet you do,” said the Father bitterly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises, this church is a house of God, not of the devil.” The Father’s features became drawn, he stepped backward and beckoned Boyd toward the grand front doors. “May I escort you? Or shall I inform the authorities? I hear you’ve been suspect to some trouble around town.”  
Boyd got to his knees, producing a cane from a coat he used for balance.  
“Gladly, Father, but first, I require something of yours.”  
The Father scoffed.  
“What could a person of your kind want from me? A blessing?”  
“Hardly,” chuckled Father Boyd. “Your heart.”  
Boyd held a blade high above his head and brought it down. The Father screamed, flailing to defend himself, age slowing his reflexes and weakening his muscles. Moment and strength tipped the tide in Boyd’s favor, the blade slicing into the Fathers chest, tearing through his black garment, but leaving but a superficial wound, enough to frighten the Father, who scrambled to his feet and fled, headed straight for a small pair of wooden doors in a corner of the chapel. He threw them open and screamed, for Boyd was perched, knife at the ready, behind the doors. Too shocked to prevent Boyd’s knife from penetrating his chest. Boyd thrust the knife deeper into the Father’s chest, pushing him back into the chapel.  
“You won’t escape so easily,” panted Boyd, withdrawing the knife. Blood spurted from the wound, surely fatal. He brought the silvery blade to the Father’s neck and swiped, leaving a bright red smile behind.  
Boyd worked, carving into the Father’s chest slowly but surely. Eventually, after cracking open his rib cage and removing a few of the curved bones, he gripped the Father’s heart, still beating, slick with hot, sticky blood.

 

* * *

 

Bree squatted down, careful not to let her ill-fitting black dress not brush the dirt-strewn floor. gathered the ceramic pot in her arms, and hoisted it up. Walking over to the fine wooden table in the center of the room, she set it down gently, careful not to disturb the bright pink daisies in the pot. 1950’s R&B floats around the humid air.  
Walking to a wire shelf boasting thirty different mason jars, Bree examined yellowed labels until she found the one she was looking for, extracting from it a few tough, dried cactus stems. Using a silvery, shiny pair of shears, Bree clipped a few choice daisies. In a mortar, she ground the two ingredients into a lumpy paste, plucking tiny, sweet-smelling leaves from a potted herb on the table and adding it to the mixture.  
The sound of the screen door slamming jerked Bree’s head upward.  
“Bree?” Cordelia’s voice called.  
“I’m here,” Bree answered.  
“What are you listening to?” Cordelia asks kindly, stepping into the workroom from around the corner.  
“Ruth Brown!” Bree replied enthusiastically. “She’s my favorite.”  
“Is Persephone here?” asked Cordelia, her eyes landing curiously on Bree’s mortar.  
“Hello, Cordelia,” Persephone piped up in a musical voice from behind a wall of glass panes, her silhouette glowing in magenta light.  
“What are you two doing?” Cordelia asked, pulling up a chair.  
“Gigi feels like ghosts keep trying to get her at night, so we’re making a potion for protection and we’re gonna mix it with her lotion,” Bree explains.  
“How sweet,” says Cordelia, smiling. “I’ve always loved this place, but I never have time to come here anymore. But it looks like you and Persephone are keeping it in good shape.”  
Bree nodded, using both hands to pull her bushy brown hair into a hair band. Persephone, her golden hair pulled into a flowing ponytail, wearing a leather corset laced over a goldenrod frock. A wooden bowl of cherries was cradled in her hands, catching Cordelia’s eyes.  
“Do you have a cherry tree in that room?” Cordelia asks.  
Persephone nods.  
“Cherries make everything smell good. Gigi will thank me later.”  
Persephone set the bowl of cherries on the table when Bree fetched a wire stand, upon which Persephone placed a large glass beaker. Bree scraped the muddy paste from the mortar, and Persephone measure a few tablespoons of a clear liquid into the beaker. Bree placed her hands beneath the beaker and closed her eyes. Cordelia watched their every move with a calculating eye. After a moment, the clear liquid started bubbling, and Persephone began to stir the concoction with a glass wand.  
“You’re heating it too fast,” Cordelia said, pursing her lips. She reached out, then hesitated.  
“It’s okay,” said Bree, withdrawing her hands from the beaker. “You can help if you want.”  
Cordelia waited for the mixture to stop bubbling, then gently placed her hands beneath the beaker. Persephone kept stirring while Cordelia heated the mixture, and Bree set about retrieving seed pods from a mason jar and mashing them into the mortar. The three of them stayed like that for a while, listening to the music waft through the air.  
“Add that,” said Cordelia finally, pointing to the mortar. Bree pushed the mash out of the mortar with the pestle.  
The mixture began to steam, and Persephone placed a wet rag over the top of the beaker per Cordelia’s instructions. Slowly, the muddy substance lost its thickness, becoming soupy. Cordelia smiled, shaking her head.  
“It feels good to do this again,” Cordelia said through her smile.  
Bree and Persephone exchanged a look.  
“We’d secretly been hoping you’d join us,” explained Persephone. “We’d love to learn from you.”  
Cordelia blushed slightly, then nodded.  
“I’d love to teach you.”  
Bree gathered rags in her hand and carefully picked up the heated beaker, tilting it and sloshing it’s contents around inside. The color had faded to a creamy gray.  
“Do you have the incantation?” asked Cordelia.  
Persephone picked up a book from beneath the table, carefully leafing through the yellowed pages. She began to recite, the now milky substance beginning to bubble again. Persephone finished, and Bree poured the pearly, frothy mixture into a small bottle.  
“You both did splendid,” breathed Cordelia, admiring their work. “If you overheat that, it’ll spoil and you’d have to start over.  
“How soon until we can use it?” asked Persephone.  
Cordelia examined the page.  
“Here it says three hours.”  
Persephone collected the book and an old-fashioned radio in her hands.  
“I’m going to go for a nap,” said Persephone triumphantly, and hummed her way out of the greenhouse, closely followed by Cordelia.  
“I’ve got something I have to clean up,” said Bree, and Cordelia departed.  
Bree pulled on a pair of pink gardener’s gloves, and carefully picked up the now cool beaker, washing it in the sink and setting it up to dry. She diligently re-organized the mason jars on their wire shelves, and replaced the brightly colored potted daisies in their corner on the floor. She used a wet rag to wipe off the counter, reciting words to herself under her breath.  
Throwing the rag into the sink, Bree checked around the corner of the greenhouse room, seeing only the grimy door at the end of the windowless hall. On the floor against the walls were a few lonesome pepper plants, tediously cared for by Persephone. Bree returned to the room, and retrieved a few pieces of chalk from their hiding place under an ivy pot. Producing a length of twine, she planted her thumb on one end in the middle of the table, fed the chalk through a small hoop, and created a near perfect circle. With utmost care, Bree inscribed the tabletop with a dozen symbols, strategically positioned around the circle. Finally, a pentagram was drawn in the middle. Bree then walked to the worktable and lifted an overturned pot, revealing a few branches with tiny, emerald leaves. Plucking one of the branches, she placed it in the center of the pentagram. Grabbing a match, she struck it on the box and dropped it onto the branch. Immediately, the branch burst into a peculiar fire, which danced and sway with a strange, enticing quality. After a moment, the fire extinguished as quickly as it lit.  
Bree examined every inch of the branch with wide, fascinated eyes. Raising a dagger to her arm, she slit it, wincing as droplets of blood pooled to the surface of her pale skin. Holding her arm over the branch, she watched intently as a drop connected with a waxy leaf.  
As the leaf began to smoke and fume, a wicked smile spread across Bree’s face.

 

* * *

 

Lisette strode into the dimly lit room, savoring the stench of smoke and vile concoctions. Rosalie collected the wooden bowl of chalk from the cabinet, clearing space on the cluttered floor. Etienne was curled up on the throne of animal skins, toes dangling inches from the enormous alligator skull sitting at its base.  
“Do we have all the ingredients, yet?” asked Etienne impatiently, her angular face sharp as a razor in the candle light.  
Rosalie set the bowl on the floor and began drawing a sigil.  
“I got the knives and the roots. Lisette, you got the food, right?” Rosalie asked in a deadly voice.  
“Chill out,” Lisette sighed. “You always act like I ain’t trustworthy.”  
“You’re not,” muttered Rosalie.  
“Hush girls,” called Etienne from her throne. The two women immediately regained their composures. “We got work to do.”  
Lisette fetched a pair of bongos painted with tribal markings, pounding the taut hide drum with the heels of her palms, humming to the tune. Rosalie finished her sigil and went about lighting black candles and pouring bowls of beds out. Etienne rose from her throne and approached the floor. A pale morph, it’s iridescent scales glinting in the faint lighting, slithered after her, emerging from the hollow eye socket of the great alligator skull.  
The room’s mildew-tainted air filled with chanting, candles flickering and molding into fantastic shapes, throwing bits of light across the room, it’s paint-chipped wools, it’s bird and snake skulls mounted with crowns of feathers, it’s tarnished black-and-white photos framed and hung with beads, it’s antique cabinets filled with pickled animal parts and grimy jars.  
Suddenly, sparks flew from the candles, and a strange shadow came over the room, like the wing of a great raven. In it’s place, clutching a wooden cane with claw-ling fingers, stoop a tall man in a muddy coat, shiny dress shoes, and a top hat decorated with tiny wooden skulls.  
“Welcome, Legba,” cooed Etienne. Lisette approached Legba with a platter of exquisite fruits while Etienne continued. “How has the afterlife been treating you?”  
“White male, 56 years of age, Catholic. A wife and a child with a passion for reading. The man got to the light, and all he could ask me was if his beloved family would be okay. Not every day you meet a soul like that,” mused Legba, selecting a prime fig and examining it in his fingers before taking a bite. “I presume you seek the Divine Twins?”  
Etienne nodded.  
“Please, if you don’t mind.”  
Legba took another bite of the fig before placing it back on the platter, still in Lisette’s hands.  
“I’ll be coming back for the rest of the fig,” Legba told Lisette, before turning and vanishing in a peculiar darkness.  
The three women stood, listening to the stale silence of the room. Etienne’s sharp figure, tall and angular, was nearly engulfed in shadows. Lisette and Rosalie stood almost in complete contrast to Etienne, their bodies shorter, rounder, the only thing truly setting them apart being Lisette’s excessive braids piled up on her head like a tower and dyed at least five different hues of chocolate.  
A noise came from the shop at the head of the apartment. The three women froze, their ears straining in the silence.  
“Forty dollars for a wig?” came one voice, starkly feminine.  
“That’s recession for you,” said another voice, much deeper.  
Etienne stalked into the front room, with Lisette and Rosalie in their wake. Standing in the salon, examining a collection of wigs set up in display, were two identical women, differentiated only by their dress. One of them donned an elegant white gown that fluttered around her feet. The other wore a black cocktail dress, jewelry heavy on her wrists. Their faces were soft, kind, both of them completely bald. They looked up simultaneously as Etienne entered the room.  
“Marassa, Jameaux, pleased to see you,” welcomed Etienne. Lisette scurried up to them, platter of fruits in her arms. The twins gathered around her, their manicured fingers hovering around the savory treats before selecting ripe, peeled oranges.  
“It is not often,” says Marassa, seating herself in a salon chair and crossing her legs, “that we receive the pleasure of visiting you.”  
Jameaux crossed to the far wall, seating herself on a stool and pulling the white fabric up off the floor.  
“What is it you seek from us,” she said, pulling apart her orange. “Surely, you’ve come to the right place, calling upon the Divine Twins.”  
“We have lost Marie Laveau,” explained Etienne.  
The two Loa nod simultaneously, as though they were of one mind.  
“Papa Legba has informed us so,” said Marassa.  
“We are sorry for your loss,” completed Jameaux.  
“And with her,” continued Etienne gravely, “went her knowledge. We lost half our Tribe when the witch hunter initiated the shooting, and we seek revenge. On the witch hunter and witch alike.”  
“Revenge always brings bloodshed,” warned Marassa.  
“If you’re looking for us to bestow power upon you, we’re afraid that we cannot help,” said Jameaux. “We are counselors, and though we have power, we have morals as well.”  
“I do not seek your power,” stated Etienne. “I seek knowledge about the other Loa. Marie contained most impressive knowledge about Loa, and no one could summon one of your kind like she could.”  
“This is true,” conceded Jameaux, eating a few segments of her orange. “We haven’t stepped foot in this salon in twenty years next week.”  
“Who do you seek, girl?” asked Marassa.  
“Someone who can help us strike a deal. A kind of deal Legba would never agree to,” provided Etienne.  
Marassa and Jameaux’s lips pucked.  
“We want to revive Marie Laveau,” said Etienne firmly. “Restore power to the Voodoos.”  
“This wish cannot be granted,” said Jameaux.  
Lisette and Rosalie exchanged glances behind Etienne’s boney back.  
“Why ever not?” asked Etienne softly.  
Both of the twins finished their last bites of orange before continuing.  
“The soul of Marie Laveau belongs to Papa Legba himself,” explains Marassa. “One would have to convince him to release Marie from Hell, which most certainly will not happen. Legba never releases a soul from his clutches if it is unfortunate enough to end up in his realm. Witches—the fools that they are—somehow find it honorable to intentionally plunge themselves into his realm. Thrill seekers, they are. Papa Legba allows them to breach the spirit world for a short amount of time, but if they stay too long, they forfeit their mortal lives and are trapped forever. And he never lets them go.”  
“Is there any Loa powerful enough to convince Legba?” asked Etienne, desperation seeping into her voice. “Or one strong enough to override Legba?”  
There is a long silence. Then, Jameaux and Marassa rose and walked slowly towards Etienne, Lisette, and Rosalie, who had formed a tight group.  
“Baron Kriminel is the one you seek,” said Marassa, the fabric of her cocktail dress rippling over her skin.  
“Marie Laveau knows how to reach him, but we cannot help you,” said Jameaux, white silk flowing around her bare feet like water.  
In an instant, a strange shadow flies over the room, and a familiar voice spoke from behind. Lisette, Rosalie, and Etienne all whirled around to find Papa Legba.  
“All done, girls?” he asked. The trio nodded. Legba reached forward and took his half-eaten fig from the platter still balanced in Lisette’s hands. “See you around.”  
And with that, he vanished.


End file.
